


ganz unerwartet // completely unexpected

by neednot



Series: ganz besonders [2]
Category: Rebecca (Movie 2020), Rebecca - Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca - Daphne du Maurier & Related Fandoms, Rebecca - Levay/Kunze
Genre: Affairs, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Kind of AU, Sequel, this one actually has a plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:54:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26161483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neednot/pseuds/neednot
Summary: One year after the events ofganz besonders, Mrs. de Winter struggles with balancing her ongoing affair with Mrs. Danvers and her devotion to Maxim. When Rebecca's boat is finally found, though, she must finally decide who is right for her, and what her future at Manderley will be.
Relationships: Maxim de Winter/Narrator (Rebecca), Mrs. Danvers/Ich, Mrs. Danvers/Narrator, Narrator (Rebecca)/Mrs. Danvers (Rebecca)
Series: ganz besonders [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1899748
Comments: 29
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [danihi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/danihi/gifts).



Another costume ball, another chance at playing as the mistress of the house, though this time I felt much more prepared; this time it wasn’t so much playing as it was stepping into a role I’d rehearsed well.

I’d chosen my own costume this time, with no input from Mrs. Danvers, though upon hearing my idea she had smirked and said it was better than the previous year. When I’d asked her to help me dress for that night, she’d just shook her head.

“You,” she’d said, “are getting too bold for your own good.” And she’d sent Clarice up, as she normally would.

And now I stared at myself in the mirror. I looked different from the year before, and not just the costume. I looked older, no longer the naive girl who had married Maxim de Winter. My hair had grown out down past my shoulders, my face more serious. My posture had also improved; no longer was I the girl who slouched and stammered whenever faced with a question she didn’t know how to answer.

No longer was I the girl who cowered in front of the staff, either. I was Mrs. de Winter now, truly, had spent the past year coming into my own, leaving my own mark on the house. My relationship with Mrs. Danvers, whatever it was, had seen to that.

It always came back to her, her presence in the shadows and hallways and sometimes in my bed. It was power I took from her, not Maxim, and I couldn’t shake that thought even now as I stood in front of the mirror, in a costume my husband would only glance at.

“Oh!”

Clarice’s gasp as I turned to reveal the finished costume to her warmed my face. I was Tinkerbell, from a book I’d read the previous year. The dress was a soft periwinkle material, layers of light fabric that sparkled when it caught the light. Clarice had twisted my hair up into something soft, letting tendrils of it frame my face, and affixed a gauzy pair of wings to the back of the dress that floated behind me, delicate things.

I had made the wings myself, had spent months agonizing over their form, over the fabric, occasionally asking Mrs. Danvers to show me how to perfect a stitch, how to handle the delicate fabric the wings were made of. But most of the work was my own, and I was immensely proud of the way they floated behind the dress.

“I love it,” Clarice gushed, reaching out to touch one of the wings. “I can’t believe you made those, Madam.” She smiled. “You certainly look better than last year, I almost don’t recognize you. Maxim won’t be able to take his eyes off you the entire night.”

“Thank you,” I said. I twirled a little, watching the way the skirts danced around me, the way the wings fluttered. “It’s not too much?”

“It’s perfect,” she said. “Absolutely perfect.”

I beamed. “Thank you. Go ahead and take the rest of the night off, Clarice—enjoy the party if you want, I can get undressed from this later easily enough.”

“Or Maxim can help you,” Clarice said scandalously, and laughed as I shooed her out the door. But I couldn’t help think of Maxim’s hands, fumbling as they tried to get my costume off, of the quick way he’d undress me, no regard for how much time and work had been put into the costume, no thought of preserving it.

No care shown towards me at all.

I couldn’t think that. No matter if I was right, no matter how prevalent those thoughts had become as of late. We were pleasant enough to each other, spent enough nights together, yet it was hard to deny that the tenderness I had felt for him when we were first married had passed. I’d confided to Bee about it once, and she’d merely shrugged and said that was how it was, being married. The honeymoon phase at some point had to come to an end.

I couldn’t shake the thought that I was the one who had deliberately ended it, however, drifting further from him with every minute I spent with Mrs. Danvers.

No. We would enjoy ourselves tonight, and it wouldn’t be just for show. The evening would go off perfectly, and at the end of it, Maxim would make his way up to my room, to my bed, and I would lie there with him and enjoy myself, not desperately wish that his hands were someone else’s.

But of course, my wishful thinking always ended up just being wishful.

* * *

I had asked Robert not to announce me when I finally came down the stairs, not wanting a repeat of last year, the attention of it. I’d insisted on a smaller costume party this year, and the relief in Maxim’s face when I had was evident. Just Beatrice, Giles, a few of the women from Kerrith, some of Maxim’s friends from the country club. Frank, of course. Altogether a small, pleasant crowd, most of the servants having been dismissed for the evening so they could enjoy the party as well.

I knew she was nearby, though. I hadn’t seen her for most of the day except when I had called her to the morning room after breakfast to finalize some plans for the evening. But I knew she’d be around, knew I could find her if I tried hard enough.

“Oh, there you are!”

I turned. Beatrice was waiting at the bottom of the stairs for me, waving me down excitedly. She was dressed as an American flapper, her costume silver and shining. I reached the last step and she gestured for me to twirl, admiring the wings.

“I love it,” she gushed, and pulled me in for a brief hug, careful not to crush the material. “You look lovely, darling, absolutely.” She took one of the wings between her fingers, examining. “And your needlework here is excellent, too.”

“I had help,” I said, and Beatrice raised an eyebrow at me.

“I didn’t think Clarice could sew this well.”

“She—Mrs. Danvers helped me,” I said, and I could feel my face growing hot at the admission. Beatrice’s eyebrow raised even further.

I had not confided in Beatrice about Mrs. Danvers’ sabotage the year before, feeling that if I had, she would have told Maxim. Even over the year as I had grown to trust her, I had kept that secret to myself, telling myself it was only out of self-preservation, a wish to not relive the humiliation of that night, but knowing more that it was to protect Mrs. Danvers—that such deliberate sabotage on her part would have made Maxim that much more inclined to let her go, as she had humiliated us both.

“Mrs. Danvers,” Beatrice said carefully. “Hm.” She dropped the wings and the smile reappeared on her face as she took my arm. “Has my brother seen your costume yet?”

“Not yet,” I confessed, and she nodded as we began to make our way around the room.

“Well. He certainly won’t be able to take his eyes off you when he does.”

“I hope so, Bee,” I said, and her smile slipped just slightly.

“I’m sure he will,” she said in that brusque way of hers. “Oh, by the way—Giles still has no idea about your present. I’m giving it to him next week.”

Beatrice had asked me to paint a photo of her and Giles in their wedding. I’d stared at it for hours until I knew every detail of their faces, the genuine happiness there.

Had Maxim and I ever looked that happy?

We would tonight, I decided. This was a chance to start over. No sabotage, no tricks.

“I hope he loves it.”

“I know he will. You really are talented, you know—perhaps we could submit your work somewhere,” Beatrice said thoughtfully. “Have everyone see how talented you are.”

“I don’t know, Bee,” I said, though secretly I thrilled at the idea.

“Nonsense, you deserve the spotlight,” she said, and squeezed my hand. “You’ve certainly grown into it. I must admit, I’m... not shocked, that isn’t right, but... you’re so very different than you were a year ago.” She smiled softly. “Sometimes lately, you almost remind me of Rebecca.”

The way she said it made me look at her curiously, my heart thudding. Beatrice scarcely spoke of Rebecca except in comparison to me, and over the past year had mentioned her less and less, as if we were all finally moving on.

“I do?”

“You’re still you, darling, don’t worry,” Beatrice said quickly, squeezing my hand. “But the… _confidence_ reminds me of her.”

Before I could ask her what she meant, we had reached the men, having almost fully circled the room now, saying hellos to everyone, letting them admire my costume. I could hear Maxim’s voice, loudly discussing something with Frank and Giles, and I took a deep breath.

“Darling,” I said, and let go of Beatrice’s arm as Maxim turned. I held my hands out at my sides, turned so he could see the full costume. “What do you think?”

I held my breath. Waited, half-fearing his expression would be the one of anger from the previous year.

He stepped up to me, his face unreadable, though I thought I saw the barest hint of a smile—though perhaps that was only what I wanted to see.

“Do you like it?” I asked, and I hated myself just a little for the childish hope in my voice.

He frowned, reaching out for one of the wings. I stepped back, hating myself for it but unable to stop imagining the wings being crushed between his rough fingers.

“What are you supposed to be?”

“Tinkerbell—from the book?” I said. “You remember, darling, I read it last year—told you about it? I… I made the wings myself, told you I was working on them…”

My voice trailed off. How desperately I wanted his approval, even now, could hear the almost pleading tone in my voice. Maxim’s frown deepened. I watched as he took in the costume—how delicate the fabric really was, the v it made at my neck, more skin than I revealed in any sort of clothing I normally wore.

“I don’t see,” he finally said, “why you couldn’t have chosen something more recognizable.”

“Nonsense, Max,” Beatrice said, loud enough for her voice to carry, “I think Mrs. de Winter looks absolutely lovely. Just because _you_ don’t read enough to get the reference...”

Giles laughed, as did some of the women from Kerrith. My heart pounded loudly in my chest, and I watched as Maxim directed his anger at his sister, who merely shrugged him off.

“Let me see,” Frank said, stepping in between myself and Maxim. He gave me a warm smile, motioned for me to turn. I did, feeling now entirely self-conscious.

“You said you made the wings?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling my face heat up.

“They’re excellent,” Frank said, and when I turned back to him he was nodding. “You’re a perfect Tinkerbell.”

“You’re just saying that,” I said, watching as Maxim scowled in our direction. But to my surprise, Frank shook his head.

“I’m not. You look lovely, Mrs. de Winter.” He bent his head close to mine. “Maxim’s just been sour the entire afternoon. To tell you the truth, I think he was afraid something like last year’s stunt would happen again.”

My face heated up. I had never told Maxim that Mrs. Danvers had been the one to suggest the costume, but it meant that he still thought that I had deliberately picked it out to spite him, despite my reassurances that I hadn’t, that it was a mistake.

“It—I wouldn’t do that,” I said. Frank nodded, and his arm brushed mine as he stepped back. I felt Maxim’s gaze hot on me again.

I turned and walked away from the group, needing a drink, a moment to myself before I had to go around as the perfect hostess for the rest of the night. But to my surprise, Maxim fell into step beside me. My heart sped up.

“Did you intend,” he began, “to make a fool of me again tonight?”

“I don’t—”

“Picking a costume I didn’t know, letting my sister make me look like some buffoon—”

“I don’t control what Beatrice says. And I picked the _costume_ ,” I said, anger creeping into my voice, “because I liked it. Because it makes me feel pretty. It had nothing to do with you, Maxim.”

We stopped at one of the tables that was positioned at the entrance to a hallway. “Nothing to do with me?” He said. He gripped my elbow, pulled me closer. “So you just decided to wear the most revealing thing you could think of?”

“Will you _stop_?” I hissed. I jerked my arm away from him. “Maxim, I don’t know how many times I need to tell you—I didn’t do any of this to spite you. Not this year, not last year.” My face became hot. “I chose this costume because I liked how it looked on me. Because I thought you might like it, too. That’s all.”

My hands were shaking, and I reached for a glass of wine, taking a large sip before I could dare look at Maxim again. When I finally met his gaze, his eyes were dark.

“You’re becoming more and more like her every day,” he said, and we both knew who he was referring to.

“Maxim...”

He held up a hand, and I could feel the eyes of some of the guests on us. “Go take a moment to compose yourself. I’ll see you after.” His eyes flickered down to my outfit, then back up. “Perhaps you should grab a shawl, while you’re out.”

“Compose myself?” I began, but he turned and walked back to the party, loudly greeting the rest of the guests, and I felt hot tears pricking at the back of my eyes. Again. Again, the thought that nothing I could do would ever be good enough for him. That I would never be good enough for him.

I took a breath and finished the rest of my wine before heading down the hallway and off into a small corridor, needing a moment alone, a moment of quiet.

And a minute later, she was there. I’d known she would be. Of everything in this house that had changed over the past year, she hadn’t. Her uniform was the same, the gray in her hair slightly more prominent, but other than that, she was always the one constant I could count on in this damned household.

I needed that. Something that steady.

My mouth against hers was hot and insistent, my hands clutching at her waist.

“Eager girl,” she laughed darkly. “I take it the party isn’t going your way?”

“Leave it, Danny,” I said, attempting to kiss her again. She shook her head.

“Someone could see.”

“Let them,” I snapped, and she raised her eyebrows in surprise.

“So bold, Mrs. de Winter,” she murmured, but she didn’t push me away from her. “It’s as if you want to get caught.” She kissed my jaw, nipped at my ear. “Are you really that unhappy?”

I kissed her again so I didn't have to answer her question, backing her up until she was against the wall.

Ours was not a relationship where we talked, where I came to her or she to me and we discussed our days, how we were feeling. I had hinted on and off that I wasn't happy with Maxim despite how hard I tried to convince myself, but it wasn't like I'd needed to tell her for her to know. The increasing time I spent in her bed was proof enough of my failing marriage.

I took her hands and brought them up to my chest, arching into her, wanting desperately to feel something, pressing my body against hers.

She drew her hands away and looked at me, and I groaned in frustration before gripping her wrists and trying to pull her back to me.

“Come on, Danny, please,” I begged. I let go of her wrists, hoping she would take the lead. “Please, I—”

In an instant she turned so our positions were reversed, though I noticed that she was careful not to push me against the wall, and I wondered why for a moment before I remembered the wings on the back of my costume. The ones so much work had gone into, that I was proud of.

She leaned in like she was going to kiss me, but instead her lips were by my ear, one hand snaking around to the back of my neck.

“You’re being reckless, and you’re being stupid,” she whispered. She gripped my neck and I sucked in a breath. “I don’t care what has happened between us, Mrs. de Winter, I don’t care how unhappy you are with your husband, I will not put myself in jeopardy for you.” She smiled. “Or did you forget what happened last time.”

Her lips met mine, then her teeth, pulling at my bottom lip; I gasped as her thigh slid between mine before she pulled away.

“Find me later,” she murmured, and I was about to nod when she wrenched away from me suddenly and slipped back down the hallway.

I pressed my hand to my mouth and turned, intending to head back to the party, intending to make an excuse to everyone and enjoy the rest of my evening.

But Beatrice was standing at the entrance to the corridor, her hand over her mouth, her eyes fixed on me, and I knew that chance was gone.

* * *

“Bee—” I said, desperately. “Bee…”

She grabbed my arm and pulled me into the nearest room, I was almost startled before I remembered she had grown up here, would know the ins and outs of this house as well as I would.

“Please,” she said as we entered the room and I opened my mouth to speak, “please tell me that I didn’t just see what I thought I did.”

“That depends,” I said, my voice calmer than I certainly felt, “what do you think you saw?”

“Don’t,” she said. “You and—and Mrs. Danvers?” Beatrice’s face flushed. “Do you—do you have any idea what would have happened if anyone had _seen_ you?” Her face softened, but only slightly. “If anyone but _me_ had seen you?”

The implication of her words sank in. She was not going to expose me, expose us, was not going to ruin me like I feared.

Beatrice saw the look on my face, and reached over and took my hand. Her expression was sympathetic, almost too much, and it made me squirm.

“I understand,” she began, “that my brother can be—is—a difficult man to live with. To love,” she added.

“I don’t—I don’t love Mrs. Danvers,” I said.

“I didn’t say you did.” Beatrice sighed, glancing around the room before fixing her gaze back on me. “What I’m saying, _all_ I’m saying, is that you are not the first woman who has loved my brother who has looked for comfort elsewhere.”

I blinked. So she knew then, about Rebecca’s affairs.

“I...” I sighed. I didn't know what to say. What could I say? I couldn't make excuses, there were none to make. She was right. I had carried on an affair with my _housekeeper_ for almost an entire year now. What kind of that woman did that make me?

I looked down at my hands, clenched in my lap, rubbed the gauzy fabric of my dress between my fingers. I no longer felt magic. I felt ashamed—hurt by Maxim, rejected by Danny, and now Beatrice was eyeing me with something that felt an awful lot like scorn.

“How long?” Beatrice asked. I couldn't look at her, focusing instead on the sparkling fringe of her costume.

“A year,” I mumbled, face hot with embarrassment. I dared to sneak a glance at her then. She was chewing on her bottom lip, a habit I didn't know she had.

“Have there been others?”

“No,” I said, so quickly she looked sharply at me. “No, Bee, there’s no one else. I promise. I’m not like—”

Her name had almost come out of my mouth. But Beatrice just nodded, her face tight.

“Does Maxim suspect anything?”

I shrugged miserably. “To tell you the truth, Bee, I don't know. He... he might suspect an affair, but I don't think—I don’t think he’d ever suspect who.” The tears that had been building since Maxim saw my costume finally fell. “God, you must think me some... some degenerate, or—” I hiccuped. “I—I couldn’t explain why, Bee, I just—it just sort of happened and I... I didn’t want it to stop, I _don’t_ want it to stop, but she’s just—we’re—”

Beatrice placed a hand on my knee. Her touch startled me, the intimacy of it after my confession of wanting to continue what I had with Mrs. Danvers. Of even having something with her to continue.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” she said quietly. “About... about that.” Her eyes met mine and I understood, then, what she was implying. About herself. “But you need to be careful. Please. I—I love my brother but he can be cold. Even cruel,” she added, and I wondered if we were both remembering the dinner party from the previous year, where he’d tried to goad me into firing Mrs. Danvers. “What you did tonight was stupid, being with her where anyone could have walked in on you.”

“I know,” I said miserably, and she took my hand then, squeezing it.

“I just don’t want to see you get hurt, dearest.” She sighed, letting go of my hand, standing with her palm on the doorknob before she turned back to look at me.

“You and Maxim… everything’s all right between the two of you, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said, because it was what she wanted to hear.

“It’s just—it’s been a year, and you haven’t…” Her gaze shifted down to my stomach, then back up to my face. “People are beginning to talk, dearest. And this… infatuation with Mrs. Danvers—”

“Maxim and I are fine,” I said, my voice colder than I had thought. Beatrice blinked, liked she had expected my words but not my tone. “My… what I’ve been doing with Danny has nothing to do with _that._ And Maxim and I have been trying, I don’t know what…” My voice broke, like Beatrice expected it to, but it was out of fear, not sadness. Beatrice’s face fell, just a little, and without a word she folded me into her arms. Guilt gnawed at my stomach. Beatrice and Giles didn’t have children, a fact she and I had never discussed, but then I couldn’t imagine brusque, no-nonsense Beatrice with children.

I let her comfort me though I felt sick at the thought, shame welling up in me. She wouldn’t have been comforting me if she knew the real reason for the tremor in my voice—that a child with Maxim, an anchor to him, was more terrifying a thought than I ever wanted to let on.

“I don’t want,” Beatrice said into my hair, “you to throw away what you have for some... some dalliance with _Mrs. Danvers_.”

My fingers tightened on her back. What I had? An empty marriage, servants’ gossip, a house that was still not big enough to avoid my responsibility to Maxim.

And Rebecca’s ghost, always lurking in the shadows, no matter how much I tried to banish her.

“I know,” I said, and took her hand. “And... thank you, Beatrice. Truly.”

“Of course,” she said, and patted me on the back in that brisk way of hers. “Take a moment to compose yourself and I’ll see you out at the party?”

I nodded. Beatrice headed for the door and then turned, as if she had just thought of something.

“Tell... Danny,” she said slowly, “that your secret is safe with me.”

“I will, Bee,” I said, and it was only after she left that I realized she’d used Mrs. Danvers’ nickname.


	2. Chapter 2

The rest of the party passed in a blur. I floated around the room though I felt like my shoes were made of lead, smiled at the right people, shook the right hands, laughed at Maxim’s jokes, his arm ever-tightening around my waist. The entire time I could feel Beatrice watching me over her glass, watching the way Maxim and I interacted with each other.

At one point I spotted Mrs. Danvers, standing in the corner with Robert, and my stomach lurched. Her thin hands were clasped in front of her, her face impassive and cold.

I could not look at her. Throughout the past year our interactions in person had changed; it was inevitable, given our situation. In public I treated her more like a servant, like a woman of my station should, had done so ever since Maxim had threatened to fire her because I cowered in front of her.

In private was a different matter. In private, I was all too willing to give up my control to her, let her take it. Our dynamic when we had started had been an unsteady give and take, fumbling to figure out where we stood with each other once we stopped substituting the other’s affection for what we lacked from Maxim and Rebecca.

And as she had promised me that night in her room, she had taught me things that I had never let myself imagine, things that still made me blush if I ever gave them any thought. I had tried so, so hard to keep what I did with Mrs. Danvers in the back corners of my mind, tucked away in my pocket, because what sort of woman let her housekeeper do the kinds of things Mrs. Danvers had done to me? Worse, what sort of woman _liked_ that?

 _Rebecca,_ I thought, but Rebecca had never, had not loved Mrs. Danvers in that way. Even in that way I was separate than her; Rebecca would not have stooped to such degenerate things.

It was hard to convince myself of my own degeneracy, though, when she brought more pleasure than Maxim ever had.

I turned away from Mrs. Danvers, and caught Beatrice’s eye. My face burned hot and without a word I raised my glass of wine to my lips and took a long drink, heading back to where Maxim was standing now with Frank and Giles.

“Shall we wrap up the party, darling?” I asked him, slipping my hand around his arm, leaning my cheek against the rough material of his suit. “I’m spent.”

A woman from Kerrith overheard, and elbowed her friend. “The parties here used to go until the next morning,” she muttered, loud enough for us to hear, and my face felt hot.

“Surely you don’t need me, Maxim,” I said softly to him, my tone desperate. I could feel Frank looking at me; Beatrice had drawn Giles into a pointed conversation away from us. “Please, my feet hurt and I just want to go to bed.”

“And what are those ladies from Kerrith going to say, when my wife leaves the party she’s hosting?”

“I...” I swallowed. “It doesn’t concern me what the women from Kerrith say,” I said. I made myself stand up straighter. “Please, Maxim. It’ll take me ages to get out of this costume; you can continue down here. I’ll meet you for bed?” I stood straighter, my spine rigid. “I want... I want time to get ready for you, that’s all.”

I hated myself as soon as I said it, hated how false the words sounded to my own ears, but I hoped Maxim bought them. He could not doubt my devotion to him, no matter if he thought it did waver occasionally—when he did ask, when he did hint at it, I merely told him that the strain of being “Mrs de Winter” was sometimes too much.

My words seemed to have some small effect on him, or perhaps it was just the way one of the men was now eyeing me in my costume, for he pulled me to him in a kiss, his hand wrapping around my waist even tighter.

I kissed him back until we broke apart, smiled at Giles and Frank, ignored Beatrice’s pointed, curious look. I swept around the room one last time to give my goodbyes, and then headed up the stairs to my own room.

* * *

She was already there waiting, my nightgown laid over the back of the chair in front of my vanity. My hands shook as I locked the door to my room, her gaze burning hot on the back of my neck.

I crossed the room to her, about to sit, when she held out a hand.

“The wings, Madam,” she said, and the next second I felt her cool hands on my back, gently taking out the pins she’d used on the wings. I shivered under her touch, her words—she only occasionally called me Madam now, and the title still sent a small thrill through me, a fact I was certain she knew and used to her advantage.

“Oh,” I said. “I... thank you.”

“They held up,” she said. “I’m impressed.”

“Of course they held up; you helped with the stitching,” I said. I was suddenly exhausted, the strain of pretending the entire night wearing on me. “Are you done?”

In the mirror I saw Mrs. Danvers raise an eyebrow, and I sighed. “I’m sorry, I...”

“There,” she said, cutting me off as she took the final pin out, her hands and the wings leaving my back. I turned and watched as she folded the wings and carefully stuck the pins in them before putting them on top of my wardrobe.

“I’ll never be able to reach them there should I want them; I’m not nearly as tall as you,” I said.

“Pity that you’ll need my help, Madam,” she said dryly. “Sit, I need to take care of your hair.”

I nodded, too tired to argue with her, and sat down in the chair in front of the vanity. I had changed the furniture in here, trying deliberately to avoid anything like what was in Rebecca’s room, and as such had ended up with a rather plain vanity with a rich, dark wood and a mirror that covered the entire back, split into thirds. It was plain, and Maxim had scoffed when I’d had the servants bring it in, despite my protests that no one would see it and so why should it matter?

How many times had I sat here in the past year, listening to Clarice as she talked happily of life at Manderley, of her family, of how happy I must be with Mr. de Winter?

Equally, how many times had I sat here with Mrs. Danvers, her hands moving through my hair the way they must have Rebecca’s, my eyes closing until her hands began to wander lower, trying to stifle my gasps so Maxim in the next room would not hear them?

Why did the duality of my marriage have to play out so often at this vanity, at the end of the day when I was too tired to interrogate how it made me feel?

Mrs. Danvers began deftly taking the pins out of my hair, the updo Clarice had done now falling around my shoulders. I leaned into her touch, my mind replaying the events of the evening.

“How did things go with Mrs. Lacy?” Mrs. Danvers asked, and it took me a moment to realize she was talking about Beatrice.

“You knew we talked?”

“I saw her pull you into that room. I’m assuming it wasn’t too disastrous, as I’m still employed and currently alone with you in your room.” She smirked. “So?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” I looked at her. “You’re not worried? That she saw us?”

“You don’t seem to be.”

“She said she wouldn’t tell,” I said, looking down at my hands. “She said I was being stupid, doing that where someone could see.”

“So she and I are in agreement, then,” Mrs Danvers said, and chuckled to herself. “Did she say anything else?”

“Just asked if I was having other affairs. If it was because Maxim and I hadn’t had children yet.” I sighed. “I told her no, on both counts. She told me not to throw away what I had for some _dalliance_ with you.” I couldn’t stop the hurt from creeping into my tone at the word. Mrs. Danvers did not respond, and when I glanced at her, her face was impassive, stoic.

“Beatrice has always been pragmatic to a fault,” Mrs. Danvers said, her voice even.

_Beatrice._

“She also called you Danny,” I said suddenly. I hadn’t intended to bring it up, hadn’t thought to ask, but Mrs. Danvers’ use of Beatrice’s first name had brought it back.

“Did she?” Mrs. Danvers said. But she didn’t remark on it further, and I found myself growing frustrated at her, again at the way even after all this time she still held her cards close to her chest.

“I thought only Rebecca called you Danny—well, Rebecca and Favell, but he seems to be doing it to antagonize you.”

“Rebecca and you,” Mrs. Danvers pointed out.

“Well, yes, but I’m—I’m sleeping with you, that’s different. Beatrice didn’t...”

My voice trailed off. To my surprise, Mrs. Danvers’ hands stilled in my hair. I froze, catching her eye in the mirror.

“You—you and _Beatrice?_ ”

I waited. Waited for her to scoff, laugh at me, tell me my imagination had run away with me again and I was being absurd.

She didn’t. After a moment, she sighed, running her fingers through my hair before her hands came to rest on my shoulders.

“It was just one time,” she said, and my stomach clenched. “Rebecca and Mr. de Winter were on their honeymoon, and Beatrice had stopped by for... something, I don't remember now. She wasn't married, and she was curious, and I was young and jealous over Rebecca.” A smile briefly flashed across her face. “We never talked about it. We got what we wanted, and that was the end of it.” She caught my eye in the mirror, her words almost a direct echo of her first encounter with me the previous year.

“I... where?” I asked, unable to stop the question from leaving my lips. Mrs. Danvers raised an eyebrow.

“Do you want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Rebecca’s room,” she said matter-of-factly. “I was doing it to spite her, not that she ever would have known that. But I knew it.”

“Oh,” I said. I looked down at my hands, waiting for her to resume taking the pins out of my hair. After a minute she did, lining them up neatly on the vanity the way she always did.

“Who... who instigated it?”

“Full of questions, aren't we?” She laughed. “I did. I’m sure that doesn't surprise you. But she was all too willing to go along with it.”

I clenched my fists in my lap. Mrs. Danvers shook my hair loose, combing her fingers through it before reaching for the brush she normally used.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it, the images worming themselves into my mind. A younger Danny, still with that confident, self-assured air, kissing Beatrice, a woman who in the entire time I'd known her had never been afraid of speaking her mind, of doing what she wanted.

And there it was again, that jealousy of trying to measure up to another woman more confident than I ever would be.

“Do you still... are you still involved with her?” I asked, though even as the question left my mouth I knew it was absurd.

“I told you it was once,” she said, her voice cold. “You'd do well to believe me.” Her eyes met mine in the mirror. “Surely you're not jealous, Mrs. de Winter?”

But I was, and she knew it.

She laughed. “Oh, you are jealous,” she said. She bent her head close to my ear. “What are you going to do about it?”

All of the hurt and anger I had been holding in the entire night came to the surface then, and I wrenched away from her, pushing back from the vanity and turning to face her. I caught her mouth with mine, kissing her hard before digging my teeth into her bottom lip until she gasped.

I pulled back from her, my hands shaking.

“Is that all?” she taunted. She leaned in and kissed me, almost gently. “Come, Mrs. de Winter, surely I taught you better than that.”

I shoved her against the vanity, not caring if it hurt her. I wanted to hurt her, wanted to wipe the smug, superior look she often wore off her face. I crushed my mouth to hers, threading my fingers in her hair and pulling until she gasped. I didn’t want to think about her with anyone else, didn’t want to think on how inadequate I was with her.

I set my lips against her neck, where I knew the collar of her dress covered because I had left marks there before, sucking on the skin there as my other hand rucked her skirts up and I straddled her thigh. I shoved my hand into the waistband of her knickers, my own thighs clenching when I felt how wet she already was. She groaned as I pushed two fingers inside her, then again, again, harder, more insistent.

I did not look at her while I did this, did not glance in the mirror at my own flushed face. I couldn’t, or I would have lost my nerve. Between my legs ached; I wanted desperately to grind against her but refused to give myself the satisfaction, not until I had undone her completely and totally. And she was close, I could feel it, had grown to know her body well enough in the past year.

I pressed my mouth against her neck, her hot breath in my ear as she gasped, her thighs now clenching around my hand as I thrust into her again. She clawed at my back as she came, curling forward into me. She didn't cry out except a muffled groan against my shoulder, only audible because of how close we were.

God damn me, but I wanted more. I wanted her gasping the way she made me, wanted her begging, trying to stay quiet so my husband on the other side of the wall wouldn't hear her. She so often taunted me before she took me to bed, whispering things in my ear I would have been ashamed for anyone else to hear, yet when I was the one kneeling between her legs she was silent.

I withdrew my hand from her, pulling back only slightly, still straddling her thigh. She watched as I stuck my fingers in my mouth and sucked on them before returning my hand to her throat. Her face was flushed, her breathing slightly uneven, but beyond that she looked like she always did.

I wanted to say something. Wanted to tell her she was mine, but that would have been too possessive, like a lover. But she so often taunted me and left me speechless, and I could not do the same to her.

And admitting my jealousy, actually saying it out loud, would have meant that there was something between us to be jealous of.

I traced her jaw with my hand as she watched, that half smirk still on her face.

“Did you get it out of your system, Mrs de Winter?” she asked. She nudged her thigh that was between mine up, and I couldn't stifle the gasp that escaped me when she did so. “I must say, I don't think I took you for the jealous type.” She reached for me then, trailing her hand down my collarbone. “Even after a year you can still surprise me.”

My hips jerked against her again and she laughed. Even now, even after I had made her come, even with her shoved up against my vanity, she was still in control, clinging to it.

I hated her in that instant, just briefly. Everything else has spiraled out of my own control tonight and I was ashamed, too, at how quickly she could snatch it away from me, how tentative my own grasp on it was.

Her eyes locked with mine. That smirk was still on her face, that expression that told me nothing about how she was really feeling, even now after a year together.

I wanted it to stop. Just once I wanted to undo her the way she so often undid me, shaking and panting under her and begging her for more.

I tugged her to me, kissed her briefly before pulling away from her and turning back towards the bed. As if she sensed what I wanted she followed me, settling herself on the edge of the bed and watching intently while I undid the buttons on my costume. I shrugged the delicate dress off and carefully laid it over the back of the chair before turning back to Mrs Danvers.

I had only worn a satin set of underwear under my costume—the material was too sheer for stockings, and I wasn't well-endowed enough that it had been noticeable I wasn't wearing a bra. Her eyes raked over me before settling on my face, that dark determination still in them.

“Do you want me?” I asked, my arms at my sides as I stepped towards her. Her hands twitched where she had pressed them against the bedspread.

I placed one palm flat against her chest, could feel her heart beating rapidly even though the thick fabric of her uniform. I pushed her down towards the bed, keenly aware that she was allowing me to do so, as she had proven before that she was stronger than I was.

She didn't answer me, and I sank to my knees in front of her, pushing her skirts up as she watched through half-lidded eyes, her expression unreadable as I hooked my fingers in her underclothes and pulled them down, my heart racing. They were fine, a dark lace material, and I thought— _she wore them for me, surely. She wanted me to take her to bed tonight. She planned on it. She wants me._

But I didn't say anything. Instead I positioned myself between her legs, my hands splayed over her hips as I set my tongue against her. Her taste had become familiar to me over the past year so that I had almost had grown to crave it the way I would a fine wine. Whether she felt the same when she knelt between my own legs I was too apprehensive to ask, despite the fact that whenever she did set her mouth there she seemed to enjoy it as much as I did.

I hated myself then but I couldn't help, again, but to think of Maxim, who had never once in the course of our marriage done to me what I was doing to Mrs Danvers. The one time I had suggested it he had looked at me with such disgust, as if I had asked him to do something horrible.

For my part, I never complained when he made me do the same, knowing that at least with him it would be over quickly.

I pulled the small nub of flesh between my lips, sucking lightly on it before letting go and running my tongue back over her, listening intently for any sound, any sign. I felt oddly as though she'd caught on to what I desired and was now deliberately staying silent so as to not give me the satisfaction.

I ran my tongue over her again, building up the same rhythm I’d had with my fingers earlier, listening until I finally heard that telltale hitch in her breath that signaled she was close. As soon as I did, I stopped.

“Do you want me to keep going?” I asked, braver than I felt, dipping my head back down between her legs for a long moment until I heard her gasp, before I lifted my head again. “Beg me.”

I slowly made my way up her body, my hand now planted between her legs, still gently teasing. I could feel her shifting under me. I leaned into her, kissed her neck, her jaw, the tightness of the muscles there.

“Beg me, Danny,” I whispered, and brought my hand up to her lips, shivering when she ran her tongue over my fingers. I made my way back down her body until I was settled between her legs again. Waiting.

Waiting.

She hardly ever begged, had only done so a few times we were together—often I was the one pleading for her touch, her mouth, her control.

I kissed the inside of her thigh before lightly running my tongue over her again. “Come on, Danny,” I taunted. “I know you know how to beg. I've heard you do it before.”

I gripped her hips, then, working my mouth over her, feeling her start to tremble before I stopped. For her part she'd gasped at the contact but made no other sound except a slight whimper when I stopped. I wanted her to come, wanted that satisfaction of taking that from her. But not until she asked me for it.

I shifted my weight slightly and pulled back, relishing the look on her face before I slid a finger inside her, curling it. She groaned, her back arching as I thrust into her once, twice.

“Beg me, Mrs. Danvers,” I said. I thrust into her again, curling my finger just so, feeling how wet she was. My own anger built inside me again as I did so, that need to control, to hear the high breathy way she moaned my name.

“Please,” she gasped, and a thrill ran through me. “Please, don’t—don’t stop.”

I placed my mouth back on her, my tongue flat against her as her hips rocked against me. But I was holding back, and she knew it.

“God, you—harder,” she said, and one hand flew up to cover her mouth as I obeyed. “Right there, right there—good girl—”

I moaned at her words, her praise, which I had not known I needed until she’d said it. I heard her start to laugh, cut off then by a groan as I closed my lips around the small nub between her legs, repeatedly running my tongue over it while my hand worked inside her, now sticky and wet with my own saliva and with her.

Rebecca had chosen wrong, I thought then swiftly, suddenly. This was a much more preferable way to drown.

I felt her muscles tighten around me and my free hand gripped at her hips to have her even closer to me.

She swore again, then cried out, and I was grateful then that she had covered her mouth, her moans still seeming impossibly loud even muffled by her hand as she bucked against me.

After a long moment she stilled, her chest still heaving, and I pulled away from her, my own breath shaky, my jaw aching.

I looked at her as I brought my fingers to my mouth and licked them. Her expression was still distant, but she motioned for me to join her. I stood, knees aching s as I crawled up the bed to her.

I leaned down to kiss her but realized my mistake, too quickly our positions were reversed and she had me pinned against the bed.

“Danny...”

“What?” she said, still breathless. “You really thought you could make me beg without there being consequences?” She smiled, and in an instant she was straddling me, her hand on my jaw, pressing one of her fingers into my mouth. I opened it for her willingly, and she laughed.

“We both know this is what you prefer, don’t we?” she said, and I could only nod. She withdrew her hand and looked down at me.

I swallowed. I had told Beatrice there was nothing between us, and the truth was, I had lied. There was at least by now trust, that the other one wouldn't go farther than what was wanted.

The realization was like someone had poured cold water through my veins. I trusted Mrs. Danvers, had been vulnerable with her in a way I had never been with anyone else. I trusted her enough to willingly give over what little control I had to her, and to try to take it from her in return. I had no one else I could do that with; at least, no one with whom I was on equal ground. We both knew who held the real power at Manderley, and it wasn’t either of us.

But every time we were together, everything I gave her, I gave to her with the trust she would not use it to destroy me. And that thought was almost more than I could take.

“What?” she asked, looking down at me.

I couldn’t tell her. Couldn’t tell her I trusted her, that I had some sort of feeling for her. She would laugh at me, or worse, insist we stop. I knew she trusted me, that much was evident from our interactions.

How she felt beyond that, though, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

I took her hand and placed it at the base of my throat, nodding at her. A wicked smile split her face as she pressed down. I tipped my head back, gasping as she slid her other hand down my body before slipping inside my underwear.

“Oh, you do want this,” she whispered, and thrust into me, her hand tightening on my throat at the same time. I moaned, and her hand left my neck to cover my mouth. She bent down, her lips by my ear.

“Someone will hear you, Madam,” she whispered. “Do you think you can be quiet?” Her voice dipped low. “Be good for me?”

I nodded, and she removed her hand from my mouth. God help me, I wanted her to call me good again, wanted that praise, that affection that no one else would give me.

“Y-yes, Mrs. Danvers,” I said, and she smirked. The words had barely left my mouth before she entered me, her pace hard and fast. She didn’t need to tease me, barely needed to touch me—I was already desperate for her, had been since I’d pinned her against the wall in the corridor. I clenched the sheets in my fist, arched up towards her. I could feel how close I was, and my eyes fluttered shut.

“Danny—please—”

I hardly needed to ask. She pressed into me even harder, and the next second she was over me, using her hips to keep the motion of her hand steady, the position familiar, as if she were a man. I clung to her as she rocked against me, my face buried in the crook of her shoulder.

I was so close, my hips grinding against her hand, my breath coming in quick gasps. She shifted so I could better grind down against her hand, her own body moving in time with her thrusts.

My grip on her tightened, my knuckles white as I threaded my fingers through her hair and pulled. She gasped and quickened her pace inside me, and I could feel my release building white hot in my core.

“Danny—Danny—”

“Come for me,” she responded, her voice raspy and low, and I buried my face into her neck and cried out as I came, only slightly aware of my teeth digging in to her flesh there, of the sound I was making.

My breath came back in short gasps when she released me, and I lay there panting, my limbs heavy. When I finally opened my eyes she was still smirking down at me, and I sighed.

She pulled her hand back, and I watched as she placed her fingers in her mouth, the expression on her face triumphant.

I pushed myself up on my elbows, tipped my face towards her. She looked at me and laughed, not unkindly.

“Insatiable, aren’t we?” she said, and I could only nod, because she was right.

“I want you,” I whispered, hardly believing the words coming out of my mouth. They were words I had said before, but the desperation behind it tonight was different, and I knew it.

And it scared me.

“You want me,” she repeated. “How?” She stood, smoothing her skirts down, walking over to the dresser where I kept my clothing, where she had discretely stored a small supply of her own underclothes on the occasions she came to my room. “I’m afraid you’ve worn me out for the night.”

“I doubt that,” I said, and she shook her head. “I want...”

But I didn’t know what I wanted, what I was asking her. How I felt about her.

I waited while she stepped behind the screen and changed. She reappeared only moments later, her hands deftly repinning the hair that had come loose when I had pulled it. Her expression was calm, stoic.

“Mrs. Danvers,” I said, and she turned to me. Her face, like Maxim’s earlier, was unreadable, but again I found that I was less apprehensive about her than I was about him.

“Mrs. de Winter,” she parroted, smirking. She strode back over to the bed, her hands clasped in front of her, the same as the day I had met her.

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

“I...” I sighed. “You know I’m unhappy with Maxim.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“I want... God, Danny, I don’t know what I want,” I said. I stared down at my hands, clasped them in my lap. “But you—you make me feel—”

“Mrs. de Winter,” she said, and her voice was cold. “I want you to think _very_ carefully before any other words come out of your mouth.” She tipped my chin up to look at her. “Before you mistake lust for something else, and say something you might regret.”

“I won’t—I won’t regret it—”

“I asked you a year ago what you wanted when this started, and you didn’t know.” She said. She sighed. “I know you’re unhappy. But before you... make any declarations, I want you to think long and hard about the repercussions of such feelings, and not just for yourself.” Her grip on my chin tightened. “Understood?”

“Yes, Mrs. Danvers,” I said. She leaned in and kissed me then, softly, taking some of the sting out of her words.

I wanted to ask her to stay. But I knew what I needed to do.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, and she nodded, like she expected my answer.

“Good night, Mrs. de Winter,” she said, and stole out of my room like a shadow.

I sat on my bed, buried my face in my hands. What was I doing? What was I thinking? The events of the night finally caught up with me and my shoulders slumped. Maxim’s anger, Beatrice finding out, all of the energy I had expended with Danny.

I took a breath to steady myself and left my room, crossing the hall to the bathroom. I splashed some water on my face, scrubbed my hands, my face, until I was sure I didn’t smell like her anymore. I turned in the mirror to make sure she hadn’t marked me.

I couldn’t hear any movement from behind Maxim’s door but I knocked on it regardless.

“Maxim?” I called, hating how small my voice sounded. I shifted my weight back and forth, determined to ignore the soreness between my legs, the persistent, constant ache of her.

I tried the knob and found it unlocked, pushing the door open. Maxim was in bed, curled up, and I went and crawled in beside him. His breathing was light; he was still awake.

 _If he turns over to me, if he kisses me, I’ll let him,_ I thought suddenly.

“Maxim?” I said softly, running my hand over his shoulder.

He did turn then, wordlessly taking my face in his hands and kissing me hard, like he was still trying to possess me, to make up for his behavior at the party.

And then he was on top of me, and I told myself to take it, enjoy it, fake it if I must.

I did not dare allow myself to think of her. Not while he was inside me. Not even if it helped me enjoy what we were doing. I would not.

Maxim finished quickly and I resisted the urge to immediately climb out of bed and clean myself off, knowing he would comment as he had done before that I wasn’t supposed to move after, that it would increase our chances of my becoming pregnant.

So instead I just lie there, feeling sticky and hot and dissatisfied. I wished for some tenderness, that he would hold me, pleasure me, something that didn’t make me feel so used and discarded.

I knew I wasn’t going to get that, though, and I tried to not be disappointed—mostly at myself, for daring to expect tenderness from Maxim again.

We had been happy, once. Right when we were married, before we had ever come to this wretched house, he had kissed me and told me he loved me, and it had not felt forced, it had not felt like I was just a substitute wife while he pined for Rebecca.

But even before my affair he had grown cold and distant, and it was as if whatever mask he had worn during our honeymoon had slipped off, and he no longer touched me with affection, but with obligation.

It was a wonder we were trying to have a child together.

“Maxim?” I asked softly. I rolled so I was facing his back, traced my hand down his side. Tried to make myself feel something like affection for him. “Do you... do you want a child?”

“Why would you even ask that?” he said, his voice suddenly sounding quite loud and awake. “Of course I do.”

I stayed silent. My hand stilled on his hip, my breathing even.

He did not ask if I wanted a child. It was always assumed that I did, by him, by Bee, by everyone. I was a young woman married to an older, handsome man. Of course I would be delighted to have his child.

And stupidly, some part of me still thought, oh, a child will save us. A child will suddenly make him fall back in love with me.

I did not ask if he and Rebecca had wanted children. I had long ago learned to never bring up Rebecca around him.

I settled against his side, closing my eyes, trying to convince myself that I did love him, that whatever distance was between us still could be bridged and repaired.

As I drifted off to sleep, I almost believed it.


	3. Chapter 3

I jolted awake some hours later to what sounded like gunfire, my body tense and aching. Maxim stirred beside me.

“What is that?” I murmured, just as another flash went off, red and blue outside our window. To my surprise he bolted out of bed instantly.

“Rockets,” he said. “A ship’s been stranded.” He hovered over me like he was going to kiss my forehead, then decided against it. “Go back to sleep, I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he said, and I heard the sounds of him getting dressed, opened my eyes to try to look out the window. It was barely light out, hardly a suitable time to be awake.

“You don’t want me to come with you?”

“You’d only get in the way,” he said, and I felt stung. “There’s not much help you could be, unless you plan on diving into the wreckage yourself.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling suddenly foolish then, because he was right, what had I expected? “I’ll... I’ll come down later then, to see how you’re doing?”

He only nodded and I fell back against the bed, the sound of Maxim shutting the door interrupted by the terrible _crack_ of those rockets again. After five more minutes, I decided sleep was going to be useless, and even if Max didn’t want me down there surely I had to go down to the beach to see, to help—if not as Mrs. de Winter then as the mistress of Manderley, surely.

I went back to my own room and dressed, pulling on a pair of trousers I’d had Danny send away for, a pair I knew Max hated, wondering if I was doing it to spite him or just because I thought they were practical. I pulled a blouse over my head and quickly ran a brush through my hair, trying not to think about the way Danny brushed it sometimes, when I asked her.

_I used to brush her hair for her every evening._

Did it still bother me, that she had those rituals with Rebecca she did not have with me? If pressed I would never have admitted it, but in the early hours of the morning where nothing felt real, I could admit that I did.

But I had something with Danny that Rebecca had never had. Wasn’t that enough? Could it ever be, or was I doomed to follow in her shadow forever?

I set my brushes down. Rebecca was gone, and she wasn’t coming back. The house was mine. The clothes, the finery, Danny, they were mine.

She couldn’t touch them anymore.

Only later would I realize, that the list of things at Manderley I considered mine, I had not counted Maxim among them.

* * *

I hurried down the stairs, surprised to find the house still mostly empty, a great echo chamber after the party the previous evening, still early enough for the rest of the servants to not have woken. Only Frith and Mrs. Danvers greeted me, the latter who was twisting the stiff black material of her dress between her fingers.

“Good morning, Madam,” Frith said, and I nodded at him.

“Frith. I was just about to head down to the beach, is there any word about the ship?”

“The ship will be fine,” Frith said. “But Maxim will be down there most of the afternoon. You’d best go check on him, he’ll know more than we will.

I couldn’t look at Mrs. Danvers, then, and didn’t know why. After a year I had grown used to acknowledging her in the presence of the other servants, could pretend that there was nothing between us as easily as I pretended to be Mrs. de Winter.

“I’ll send word, if there’s any news,” I said, and they both nodded at me, and I tried not to think about them, about Maxim, as I made my way down to the water.

When I reached the shore there was already a crowd gathered on the sand, watching the divers pull in the wreckage of the boat. I spotted Frank’s tall form and hurried to him.

“Frank!” I called, and he turned to me, his expression serious.

“Mrs. de Winter,” he said. “You shouldn’t be down here.”

“Why not?”

He shook his head. “It's a gruesome sight. She's been down there a year—more, even. There’s not much left to look at.”

“What has, Frank?”

“Didn’t you hear?” He said, and I shook my head. “The divers found a boat. Rebecca’s boat.”

_Je Reviens._

_I come back._

Rebecca’s boat. Rebecca. Always, always Rebecca. I would never be free of her.

Frank’s face was twisted, as if he had smelled something sour, and my heart sank as I realized that couldn’t be all, there had to be more to it. Then the full force of his words hit me, and I stared at him. “What do you mean she’s been down there a year? The boat?”

Frank went pale. “I shouldn’t have said.”

“Frank,” I said, and reached out and grabbed his arm. He seemed surprised at the contact. “Frank, tell me. I can handle it.”

He looked at me a long moment then, as if seeing me for the first time—me actually, not the scared girl who had become Mrs. de Winter by chance a year ago, but the woman I had grown into over the long months at Manderley. He nodded, almost to himself, as if he’d made up his mind about something.

“They found Rebecca’s body,” he said. “The woman Maxim identified wasn’t her.”

“I... what?” I asked, even then not fully believing him. He nodded again.

“Maxim identified the wrong woman,” I said slowly, and Frank sighed. “But... accidentally, surely.”

My eyes met his. I did not know what I wanted then, for him to say _yes of course Mrs. de Winter, of course it was an accident. He was so distraught, of course,_ or for him to admit what I already suspected—that Maxim had identified the wrong woman on purpose. Because the former answer was forgivable, but the latter one, the one I knew in my heart to be true? It would shatter us, Maxim and I together, and we were not nearly strong enough for that.

“Of course it was an accident,” Frank said, his gaze not leaving mine, and I knew then that he did not believe it, either, but that his loyalties would be with Maxim.

“Where's Maxim?”

“In the boathouse,” Frank said. “You'd best go talk to him.”

“I will. Thank you, Frank.”

He seemed like he wanted to say something more but didn’t. I could feel him looking at me as I made my way to the boathouse, my stomach churning.

Although I had spent the past year renovating the boathouse, taking it over, making it my own, I could swear I still felt Rebecca’s ghost watching me from the corners every time I entered before I dared switch on a light. This morning was no different; worse, it seemed, as I could feel her presence everywhere. It seemed she was just walking beside me, her arm brushing mine, her breath tickling the back of my neck.

But it was just the wind. It had to be.

The door to the boathouse was unlocked, Ben nowhere to be seen. He occasionally wandered by when I was down there, and I hadn’t minded his presence, sometimes a welcome distraction from my own thoughts—and he, at least, always had something nice to say about my paintings.

But no. The light was on, and when I pushed open the door, there was Maxim. He sat on the stool I often sat at to paint, his head in his hands.

“Maxim?” I said, my voice almost too loud in the quiet space.

He did not look at me, and that was almost unbearable, for I wished he had, then. The knot in my stomach only grew tighter with every passing second his eyes did not meet mine.

“Frank... Frank said they found her boat,” I said after a moment. “Rebecca’s boat. And her body.” I hovered next to him, my hand inches from his shoulder before I withdrew it and sat on the bed.

He finally looked at me then. His eyes were tired, pained, and for a second I wanted to wrap my arms around him, wanted to protect him, this man I had loved once.

But I couldn’t, so I didn’t. Instead I perched on the edge of the bed, looking at my husband as if he were a wild animal, as if any sudden move I made would cause him to startle and come at me.

“Tell me,” I said quietly. “Please. Tell me what happened.”

He finally lifted his head.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “None of it. You heard Frank yourself; they’ve found the boat. And they found her body.” He looked at me. “So you figured, then, that I identified the wrong woman back then.”

“Yes,” I said, my mouth dry. “Yes, I did figure that.”

I did not tell him, that I had asked Frank whether or not it had been an accident. I did not tell him because I was afraid I already knew the answer to a question I did not dare ask.

But it turned out, I didn’t need to ask it.

“I did it deliberately,” Maxim said, and when he continued speaking it was in those dead, lifeless tones I had so often heard from Mrs. Danvers. Strange, that his voice should sound so dull when speaking about his late wife, and hers so alive. “I identified the wrong woman because it suited me to do so.”

My mouth was dry; I could not speak. But Maxim must have taken my silence for curiosity, because he continued.

“Ours was not a happy marriage,” he began, and I was taken aback at the sudden change in tone, but thought it best not to interrupt him. “Everyone thought it was, and I let them think so, because if they knew the truth it would ruin me, ruin Manderley. And the truth is that my first wife was unfaithful.” He paused here, lit a cigarette, and I focused my eyes on the small orange glow from the end so I would not have to continue looking at his face. “Though I suppose that’s the nice way to say it, don’t you think? In truth Rebecca was a whore; always going off with this man or that, inviting them up to London. I learned the truth not long after we got married, on our honeymoon in Monte Carlo. She revealed to me there what she was—a commoner, a whore, and what’s worse a degenerate—not an ounce of shame on her, in fact she seemed _proud_ of her affairs, with men and women both, she told me. Even that wretched cousin of hers.”

The look on Maxim’s face as he said those words chilled me to the bone, and I was grateful then for the poor lighting in the boathouse.

He took another drag on his cigarette. “She kept her lovers at a flat in London. Told me so in the same voice as if she were discussing the weather. ‘I’ll make you a deal,’ she said. ‘You let me have my affairs, my happiness, and I’ll make Manderley into something we can both be proud of. I agreed, out of fear of the scandal of what would happen should her... preferences be known.” His face twisted in disgust. “What kind of man would I be seen as if word got out about her? A cuckold, a laughingstock, a man who couldn’t control his wife. So I let her have her affairs, and I thought that would be the end of it.”

Fear constricted in my chest at his words. _A man who couldn’t control his wife._

Was I the easier wife to control?

“But she didn’t uphold her end of the bargain,” Maxim said. “She brought her lovers down here, to the boathouse. To Manderley.” His gaze finally met mine. For a second my heart stopped, fearing I’d been found out, but then I realized—I was supposed to be shocked. Scandalized. This was supposed to be new information to me, information that I was not supposed to have gleaned from Mrs. Danvers or Jack Favell; it was a moral condemnation of Rebecca’s character I was supposed to agree with. “She wanted to rub it in my face, all the freedom she had, while I was the one stuck with the responsibility of this house, I was the one it would ruin if it got out.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “She was a beautiful woman, and to everyone else she was the perfect, doting wife, and I the perfect husband, and they were none the wiser.”

 _Not to everyone,_ I thought then, thinking of Frank’s expression, of Danny, of Jack.

“She started talking about having a child, then, once I’d found out she kept bringing her lovers back here. Taunting me with it, with the thought of an heir, of attaching myself to this place, to _her._ ” His gaze was wild, haunted. “Told me no one would believe me if she said the child was mine, though by that point I wouldn’t touch her. ‘You won’t be able to leave me then, Max,’ she said. ‘You won’t leave the mother of your child.’ She laughed when she told me that, so much so that I knew—she was already pregnant. She had already done it.”

He threw down his cigarette, and I winced at the mark it made on the floor, not daring to say anything, to interrupt him. I thought of Rebecca, trying to tie Max to her with a child so he could not leave.

I thought of Max, his body on mine, trying to do the same to me, and suddenly I felt sick, my hand pressing against my mouth, cold, clammy.

“The night she died I came back from London and saw the light in the boathouse was on,” he went on, his voice hollow. “I’d had enough; I knew she was down there with Favell, or one of her other lovers, and at the time I did not care, because when she had gone up to London that day she told me she’d begun shopping around for nursery items, planning, and I knew I could not let it go on any longer.” He closed his eyes. Opened them. “She was alone. She was alone, and she saw me, and she was laughing, that I remember.” He swallowed. “She told me the London trip had been a success, that she couldn’t wait to tell Jack, to tell Danny, and I had the gun in my hand and when I looked at her all I could see was the next thirty years of my life stuck with this woman whom I hated.” His voice had gone flatter now. “When she died she was still laughing.”

“Maxim...”

“I killed her,” he said, and I knew he had not heard me. “I shot Rebecca. And then I dragged her body out onto that boat, and I sunk it. I did not love her. I hated her.” He looked at me. “Can you look at me and say you still love me now?”

I couldn’t speak. All I could think was _He shot her. He shot Rebecca._

And then again, _Oh God, how am I going to tell Danny?_

“I… I’ll need time, Maxim,” I said, and he nodded, but I saw a look of bitterness and disappointment cross his face.

He killed Rebecca. He killed her in this boathouse, where we sat. The walls, the floors, the places I had renovated and taken over. Had he wanted that? Planned it, to get rid of the evidence?

Maxim caught my eye. I could tell he knew what I was thinking. The question was on my lips, but I didn’t know if I wanted the answer confirmed.

It turned out I didn’t even have to ask.

“I wanted you to take over this boathouse,” he said. He glanced around, sneering. “Everything in here, every surface that she touched, I wanted you to take it over, to get rid of her wretched memory. To cover what I had done.”

I reached for him. I made myself reach for him, because it was what I should do, because it was the only thing I could think to do in that moment. Reach for him because she hadn’t, and because, I thought, I could still comfort him.

My touch seemed to spur something in him, because without a word he turned and kissed me. It was as if his confession had freed him but in doing so he'd unknowingly passed the burden of it onto me.

His tongue slipped into my mouth and one hand crept to the back of my neck to pull me to him. There was no tenderness in it, no pleasure, nothing that would make me desire him. To my horror he pushed me back on the bed, his mouth moving to my neck as his hands fumbled with the buttons on my blouse.

I tried not to think of the first time I'd been down here with Mrs Danvers, the contrast.

“Maxim—Maxim, stop,” I said, attempting to push myself away from him. My heart hammered in my throat.

What if he didn't listen?

He slowed but made no move to stop kissing me, his hands now searching for the zipper on my skirt. I placed my hands flat against his chest, pushing harder. “Stop!”

He pulled back from me, staring down.

“I need you,” he said, but there was no conviction behind it. I closed my eyes, trying to think of a response.

“I just… I don’t want _our_ child to be conceived here,” I said, hoping I sounded sweet, convincing. “Not… not in this boathouse. Not where…” _You shot Rebecca,_ I thought, but didn’t say. “Not someplace Rebecca used. Please, Maxim, I want that to just be ours.”

I held my breath, waited, hoping he believed me. After a long moment he pulled back, smoothed a hand over my hair, the most tender he had been with me in a long time. I sat up, preparing to push myself off the bed, thinking that was the end of it, but he stopped me, tipped my chin up so I was made to look at him.

“I hope,” he said, “You still love me. You’ve grown… you’re more distant than you were a year ago,” he said. He kissed me then, and it was a kiss I'd been wanting from him for almost two years, something sweet and passionate, that meant he might still care for me.

But when he pulled back, his eyes were dark.

“Don’t ever,” he said softly, “betray me like _she_ did.”

“Maxim, I…” I swallowed. How could I promise him that, when I had already done so?

I wanted to ask if he still loved me, but I didn’t want to know the answer, when I didn’t know how I felt about him myself. During the first months of my affair with Mrs. Danvers, I had tried so hard to convince myself that I was still in love with Maxim, that what I was doing with her was purely physical.

But here, now, with the weight of Maxim’s confession on me, realizing I did not know him at all, I wasn’t so sure.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back! Didn't think I was going to continue this story but it was begging to be updated, so here we are. Rating is 'M' for now because while there is some smut in this later it's actually mainly plot (for once!) Comments and kudos are especially appreciated.


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